Foreword

I am a story concerned not to your time

Of warriors, kings, and folks of much grime.

Of places and meetings one would think as so tragic.

Of a madmen, and curses, and great metal magic.

 

I may contain names quite familiar to thee.

But believe I am fiction and was written by he

The great men and heroes for whom the bards sing with glee,

And the villains, and foes, you all wish not to see.

 

I vow not to depict any person you know

The events they take part in is merely for show

Again, to make clear, I am far from real life

Though my voice may remind you of some personal strife

 

One’s trust to a poem, oh so quickly it falls.

I have told you of truths... but five lines were false.

1. Lanterns in the Fog

Then a speeding sword pierced the monster’s arm—pinning the yard-long limb of an uncommonly large animal on a rotten tree. The injured beast parted its jaws; presenting a randomly jagged set of teeth. Then bellowed so loud it caused the branches around to shiver in fear. Throwing its crimson eyes about, it sought for the fool who issued the soaring blade. As it made its search, another plank of iron was spat out by the distant fog. It missed the heart by two feet but held enough precision to hit the next tree. 

Fogs, after all, were better at blinding men than spitting swords.

The girl, fallen to the ground, victim of the savage beast, looked to her right whence the swords came—a common response from anyone receiving an intervention from their certain death. Yonder the fog and darkness, there was a figure of a man approaching. Half a dozen glints of light flickered around the figure as it neared—then another shimmer was added, then another.

Lanterns, she thought. A group of men.

To her tragic disappointment, emerging from the blur of fog was but one hooded stranger in common clothes. Moonlight was peeking through the holes of his tattered cloak. No lanterns, no brothers. All the while, he was murmuring threats for the monster. Swords swimming around him as he did.

 

Here’s another damned wolf.

Feeding in the cover of the night.

Cryin’ from a little stab in the arm…

 

As he neared the beastly wretch, upon every line he whispered to himself, a sword was born from thick swirling grains of silver in the air. Eighteen strong, the weapons hovered about the hooded man—waiting for their forger’s command. Some were seen clearly while others crept within the shadows—vanishing and shining back as they moved under the moonlight.

Walking while guarded by his swords, lancing an exasperated glare forward, the man’s fearless arrival gained him the monster’s attention.

The beast gave another roar. More anger in it than pain.

Believing it was some mindless animal in the woods, he entered so gallantly that he started to believe himself invincible from the many beasts he had swiftly slain in the past.

The faintness of light and the thickness of the fog betrayed his eyes. Never had he been more wrong.

 

Wait… Wolves don’t roar.

 

As he came closer, standing on its two feet before the terrified girl was a beast drenched in its own blood. The light of a full moon had leaked through the branches and dry leaves above to pour colour and shape to the creature. It had two rows of jagged thorns for teeth, paws with long crooked fingers, each limb long as a pike, bones curved like hooks peeking from its spine, and skin glistening from ruptures and red.

And he had wounded it most sincerely.

The monster drew out the sword that went through its arm.

“Another forger,” it spoke, dark hollow voice like a rumble of thunder. Then the forger’s sword was thrown back with impressive might, spinning—sinking it halfway into a tree beside him—barely missing his neck. A quick blow of air kissed his cheek as the sword passed him by. Dazed, he stood blankly for a moment—absorbed by the thought that he would have been beheaded had it been thrown a little more to the left.

It was the start of a fight to the death between man and beast.

Believing that running away would be futile; he lunged forward, tossing back his hood knowing he needed to see every single thing around him—revealing a face freshly past adolescence. His rugged a hair danced with the evening breeze. Eyes wide open, overly cautious of his adversary. The beast’s ability to talk was the least of his concerns.

Speak and he may lose focus. Grimace and he may not see.

A man’s weakness weighs tenfold in the face of peril.

Blades flew from every direction—teamed with their maker’s unusual yet effective ways of handling them. He dashed across obstacles of withering trees and uneven earth while avoiding the creature’s onslaught—throwing his floating swords one after another at the beast with hopes of dismembering any part of it.

But the agile limbs of the bloody creature aided it to hold out on its own. Leaping from tree to tree, cleaving the ground as it ran, and attacking with the strength of twenty men, it proved itself a mighty adversary for any who dared to oppose it.

One of the swings of the monsters’ arm would have deformed the forger’s entire torso had he not grabbed a sword to use its flat as a shield. His body was protected but the force was too great—sending him flying twenty paces away—even farther if not for the decrepit tree that he felled when it broke his flight… and presumably all his limbs.

“This does not concern you, forger,” growled the creature, calm as if without notion of danger.

But the man kept wildly at his barrage.

The forger charged once more with the whole of his speed, wielding a sword for each hand and escorted by the rest. A scrawny man can only hold a fight against a creature nearly twice his size for so long. He roared his loudest as he engaged for the final thrust. All thoughts for sanity, discarded.

But to his tragic misfortune, the monster caught his hands. It gave no mind to the handful of blades that staked its flesh, heart, stomach, gob, shoulders, legs, and chest. The angered monster swung the forger against a tree which looked like a simple act of waving a twig. Out of shock, the rest of his metal spawns were cut lose from the unseen strings which held them in the air; letting them drop to the rocky grass.  

The forger, however, captive to his enemy’s grip, was thrown high above the trees. The creature and the girl became smaller and smaller and smaller. Branches slapped him all over as he ascended. When in a state of absolute helplessness, with nothing to grab a hold of or lean on to, one might feel a tad forsaken. Being helpless literally between heaven and earth, however, he felt his soul was being sucked out by every demon below as his flesh was hauled by every angel above.

As he sped to a height that no man has ever reached, tumbling uncontrollably, he flailed his limbs madly to the sky in desperate attempts to find some unseen ledge in the air. His scream echoed halfway across the forest.

Aaahh, he cried, shamefully like a someone strapped to a mad horse, you bloody fuuu~ the rest of his ineloquent profanity was gobbled up by the passing gust of wind.

Again stranded in mid-air, battered painfully, the forger clawed a gesture to him as a call for his swords, prompting all of them to bolt to his side. Firmly grasping one sword, he threw it down to the beast, ten swords sped after it. The remaining seven stabbed the nearby trees to serve as steps and grips to break their forger’s fall—all of which failed to serve their purpose since it was a branch that caught him. The branch broke and eased him to down. Ease, meaning a three yard plummet to the rocky ground one inch shy of snapping his spine out of place.

 Upon his landing, he stared the ground for a moment, kneeling, feeling its roughness and dirt, quirking a little idiotic smile for his triumph against the deadly height.

Then heard was a startling grumble, as though the creature called for his attention. At once, he held his hand before him; fingers spread apart. His action commanded all the swords to position themselves around the fiend—depriving it of escape.

The creature looked at the fine works of metal with indifference like how a man looks at clouds. “Not many can do this,” it said.

“To hell with you, damned monster,” said the forger, enduring the hellish ache of his beating.

His open palm closed to a fist. The blades, without delay, rushed towards the torn skin and bloody fur of the beast—resolute for the kill.

As the blades were but inches from piercing its black heart, the monster growled two words, “Zalatter Viedre.”

At once, every sword shattered into glittering specs of ashes from tip to handle as they neared the enemy.

Seized as to why his own blades heeded another’s voice, the forger glared at the creature’s eyes. “You’ve taken too many, monster,” with a swing of his arm, the blades were all summoned back—aimed at the fiend of unworldly flesh.

“Monster, you say?” responded the being with dozens of fangs and blood coated claws, fearless before the man’s power. “Hear what I say, forger,” its voice came with scorn. With feet big as a bear’s and nails like horns, it plodded towards him—gently pushing aside the swords in its path.

The forger wanted to impale the creature but realized it was futile after all the impaling he had done. Hence, he started to step back, careful of what the creature might do. His heartbeats in the rapid tune of fear.

“Take another step back and I’ll tear your neck open, forger.”

Thus, he stood in attention, placing all his faith on the swords around them.

The creature set  its maw beside the forger’s ear then spoke; the sounds came out hollow and deep like a lion’s growl.

“Not all monsters have fangs and claws. Look at her and she will burn you.” It raised its right arm, the entire length of its bleeding limb pointed to the girl. “Her fire will reach beneath you bones and turn your soul to ashes. You impede me in the favour I provide. Forgers and bewitchers alike—spread across lands like plague.”

The unworldly entity stepped back to lock eyes with the fearless man. Words leaked out of its mouth. “

Every sword cocked back by a foot. Then they all froze in place—like a brawler’s fist clenched before the swing.

“The mouse squeaks,” heard was a hollow laughter from the creature; its stench of a breath fouling the air. “You mistake oil for water in dousing this flame. Yet you pour a river of it all the same. I look forward to seeing your fate, forger.” Then it turned its back and walked away. “Take no pride in this victory. You have no idea of who I am… of what I am.”

“A devil’s what you are.”

“Your words are but sounds.”

Its figure shrunk upon every step. From a massive beast to a lifeless long-tail wolf—covered with rips and every bone out of place. As if its flesh was clothing; worn, ruined, and discarded.

Upon the creature’s leaving, the man eased himself on a tree trunk toppled to the ground by his enemy’s strength. He rested his eyes upon the young lady sitting on the ground two steps away.

“You there. Girl. You a girl? You still alive? Because if you’re dead, I’ll be on my way now. I don’t handle well with corpses.”

2. An Evening Stroll

She sat on the ground, heaving breaths, staring into the dirt, petrified by the monster she had exchanged gazes with. Ants have already started to climb her dress.

“It’s gone,” he said. “Malicious little lout won’t be on its feet for a while, I think.” Exhaustion made his eyes see the fallen trunk as a feather bed, its coarse bark felt like silk.

She looked left and right, careful attention to sound as she did. Fog blurred the woods and foliage. Rustling leaves and silence all around. No oddities in sight; save for the presence of the man beside her.

“Where is it?” her voice, the frailest of sounds.

“Turned to a wee carcass, as I see it. All bloody and torn,” seeing the girl still fazed, he added, sounding more casual, “it looks more adorable now than a while ago, I assure you.”

He touched her shoulder to help her rise. The girl’s response was a terrified flinch.

“I can stand, sir.” She looked up and beheld her protector. Her eyes ran from his head to toe and once more. Filthy clothes, filthy hair, filthy all—definitely not a sir, she thought.

“If you can stand, let’s be on our way, then,” he spoke as if it was an obvious fact, “unless you’d rather enjoy the night alone.”

He took notice of the fear that lingered in the woman’s eyes—warily darting left and right, as did her whole head—overly alert for danger.

The forger, with a flick of his wrist, spawned back four of his loyal swords to promise her that no harm would approach them.

“It’s a bit late to be here. You’re from Tardel?” he queried.

An unknown man wearing clothes no better than a bandit’s suddenly asked where she lived. Common sense required her to lie—but the evening’s grim air dictated otherwise.

She nodded timidly, “Y-yes… why?”

“Come on, then. I rot there too.” With two hands to push down his knees, he rose with a grunt. “The Guide’s just a few hundred yards from here.”

“But I barely know you.”

“My fair lady, so sweet and mild,” his tone was gentle but with a hint of fading patience, “if I was to rape, kill, and loot you, in any order, I should’ve finished by now, don’t you think?” his swords took a turn in the air, as though saying indeed to their forger’s words. His candid query was enough to have her revise her thoughts of him.

She stood, patted the filth off her clothes, and walked.

“You’re going the wrong way,” he said. To which she turned.

Both of them treaded through the ghastly woods with knees muttering of fatigue and fright. The man purposely made his swords surround them so as to guarantee that a protector was still with her; and that he’d be safe as well. The iron planks zipped frantically left and right, up and down, like bees in search of a pretty flower to stab.

It pays to have an anxious sword or four floating around where vision is very limited. One would seem demented but it was practical. After all, an eerie forest with poisoned trees, fanged animals, blinding mist, and a talking monster was never an ideal place to be in during the night… or any other time of the day.

In the midst of their silence, the forger noticed the woman’s soft hair swing in tune with her steps—which was quite a rare sight for a man who spends his days around people devoid of grooming.

“A thousand thanks,” she said, barely enough to be heard.

Speaking with his nose, he gave a short “hm” for a reply.

Letting a few dozen steps pass by, she spoke again, “your swords gave me quite a scare… swinging about so near me,” she said in honest intention to commend her saviour, “it must have been an ordeal to gain such mastery.”

“About that,” he said, “I have to say, you’re the luckiest girl I’ve ever met.”

“Why is that?”

“I didn’t notice you at all until the fight’s about done.”

“You what?!” Her eyelids flipped open upon realizing that she went unnoticed while a flock of flying swords scrambled everywhere, nearly mincing her flesh and bones without care. She recalled one sword stabbing the ground a few inches away from her knee.

He shrugged. “This is a forest damned by some spectre they call the whisperer… and it’s night… and a talking pissed off bloody thing was frantically eager to bite my head off,” he explained, “I mean, who’d bother to check for damsels in distress given those circumstances?”

She thought deeply, brows knitted, then nodded with a quirk on her lips, “Fair enough. I’m not in distress.”

“Of course, you’re not.”

They continued walking.

“Who the hell are you, anyway?” He roared a yawn, “I forgot to ask.”

“I’m Arza,” She said, careful of disclosing herself to the stranger. Walking amidst the dark woods, she turned her head to see her saviour by the corner of her eyes. She needed a name should her escort start painting himself in darker shades. “And might I learn the name of this brave knight who almost killed me by pure chance?”

 “Axev. But I’m not brave and I’m no knight.” The part where he nearly dismembered her a few times needed no correcting.

“What are you, then?”

“Someone living quietly, but hounded by misfortune.”

“Why?” she asked, “you don’t seem to have lost a limb. Your head’s still there… that’s fortunate. Or is it your co—”

“No, all parts still here,” he said, cutting her short. He sighed in preparation for a quick tale which had a dab of pride contained in casual speaking. “I’ve gone against eight men before—eight men, bladders bloated with ale. Two of which were forgers—everyone was holding something sharp to poke me with… all because they were in search for a bit of merriment. Then I happened to be passing by. Not as harsh as losing my cock but quite unlucky, don’t you think?”

“And?” her expression lit up slightly.

“And what?”

“What happened next?”

“Here I am, alive. And they… feel quite hurt.”

“You killed them?” A mild rise in her tone.

“Heavens, no.” His swords twitched in accordance to his shock. “I outran them… I’m good at that,” he said. “Gave them a few taps here and there, though.”

“Broken arms and legs?”

“And some scratches.”

When in a forest too dark for angels to tread, the slightest rustling of bushes demanded immediate attention. A nearby wolf’s growl sent Arza racing to Axev’s side. The forger, startled as well, flicked an open hand to his right. His four blades dove into the bushes. Nimble little feet on scrambling soil told that the beast had gone away. His senses led his body without consulting the mind—a convenient trait to have when a little short on time.

“Isn’t this place a bit odd for a girl?” he asked, prompting her to walk again.

“I was on my way to Bont for some parchment.”

“Why Bont? There are parchmenters in the city.”

“There’s someone there I know. Sells cheap, that man… but just for me and no one else.”

“How’d you end up in these woods, then?” he asked. “It takes quite some skill to stray from a straight path.”

“My father had me accompanied by a horseman. Harn, he called himself. We were treading the Guide. But there was a snake on the road, longer than a spear and green as grass. The cursed serpent startled our horse. Wassel, that four-legged idiot, ran blindly into the woods, confused which of her feet to use first. Harn fell and his head hit a rock… badly. Wassel went on without me but three wolves got her quick. She gave me a chance to escape.”

“And then you got lost?”

“I never get lost,” she spoke it like a creed. “I left Wassel… and wandered with little familiarity over the terrain.”

“That is getting lost.” With knitted brows, Axev asked, “What do you need paper for, anyway?”

“You won’t believe me.”

“I’ll try to.”

“I’m a maker of maps.”

“A cartographer?” Axev stopped, “I think you’re a few decades short for that.” Three swords went to Arza’s side and melted into shackles, quiet as they could. The fourth one found its way to his hand. “I’ve come across people in these woods. Raiders or scouts, a few of ‘em. Most would act innocent until you turn your back.”

“Is that why you stayed behind me all this time?”

“A map-maker, lost. That’s a bit rare, is it not?” The shackles slithered by Arza’s feet. “And at the Whisperer’s Den at that,” he added. “Surely, you’ve heard the song about this place,”

“A whisperer… now it makes sense…” she spoke with brighter eyes. Unaware of the chains by her feet, Arza started to sing a line from The Whispers in the Den, softly so she’d not be heard by whatever beast hid in the cover of night. “Hold my hand, said the guide… don’t e’er you let go.” she turned her back on Axev and carried on walking. ”For the mist, oh it gently whispers in yer ear.“ Even to ears innocent of music, the mildness of her singing enticed. The chains danced to her melody like serpents tamed by flute. Axev swung a foot at the best dancer for discipline.

No raider’s this lively, he thought. Carefully, the shackles crawled away from her feet, straightened, crunched themselves back into blades, and resumed positions—swaying in the air as if caressed by the sweetness of her voice.

“A shortcut… I roamed aimlessly expecting I’d soon stumble upon a bloody shortcut to Bont,” she said in defence, hands on her head and sounding as if finding a shortcut in such grim place was certain as her next breath. “Shortcuts are my specialty, you see. I’m a map-maker after all.”

“Bloody, yes. Shortcut… one to a grave, perhaps.”

“Why would you be here, then? That is, if I may ask.”

“On a hunt for them flappin’ wolves,” said he. “By the way, who are you making maps for? A girl’s got no use for that.”

“For a rich man,” she said, “I’m not supposed to name him.”

Axev sheared the branches blocking their way. They yawned alternately as the evening took its toll on them.

“A defenceless girl strolling at night in a forest that many fear tread,” he said, peeling off the itch off his scalp fondly, “you do realize that your presence here transcends the bounds of logic, yes?”

“I’m not defenceless,” answered Arza, “I’ll have you know, I have a knife with me.”

“How frightening,” he smirked, head cocked left, all superior and smug, “this knife you take pride in, has it served you well so far?”

“There was a thief, once. He tried to touch me… quite ardently,” her casual voice melted to one filled with regret, “I had to cut his neck so he’d stop. There was a raper too; and a merchant.”

The forger had not expected to hear a disheartening past. “A sting to the chest, isn’t it?” he said with much compassion, “needing to use that knife of yours.”

“I feel less pain if I convince myself they deserved it.”

“The bastards had it coming.”

~~~

The night was cold and dark. Stars were seen past the rotten branches above their heads. They needed not the smallest effort to hear the snapping of twigs and rustling of leaves beneath their feet.

The trees dwindled in numbers upon every step of their walk. Bushes and paths began to greet them as they made it out of the Whisperer’s Den and neared the walls of Tardel.

The moonlight and absence of perforated shadows finally revealed Arza’s whole image. A green kirtle dress covered her tender white flesh—sleeves reached past her wrists. At the sight of her beauty, Axev’s wits left him for dead.

“Moon… Round...” he looked at her, “pretty.”

”Quick… Me… Bloody… Scared.”

That moment, he wanted to jab his mouth upon her thin lips and demand it as the reward for saving her. He craved to stroke the length of her hair. If she resisted, he’d bind her with chains and feel her from the waist up. He was a forger and she but a girl; not a single soul would hear them for a mile.

Only a fool would not be tempted by Arza’s beauty.

As their chat went on, they have arrived at the only road beaming clear through the treacherous woods. The Guide, as common folk called it. It was wide enough for a half a dozen carts to pass by running side by side. The Guide was the safest route through the Den; even the blind would need skill to get lost.

Axev’s swords repositioned themselves; a pair to the left and another to the right.

“By any chance, sir, are you really not a knight?” she turned to walk backwards, facing Axev.

“You seem to have very poor eyes.”

“I’ve seen how well you handled swords,” she said, “how sure you were with every swing. Your skills alone can earn you a title. Forge knight, if I’m to judge.”

“Look at my clothes,” he replied, “and tell me if a knight would permit himself be clad in these rags?”

“Most knights have blood on their hands.” She added, “and hair… and armour… and face. Worse than rags, don’t you think?”

“Knights wear their enemy’s blood like jewellery in battle. Rags, however, is a different matter entirely.”

“Can’t argue with that,” she said. Walking backwards, she nearly tripped over a rock to which she yelped, then laughed. “But the forge knights are somewhat decent.”

“Yes, because they could kill you much quicker from a good range, those bloodthirsty sods.”

“And they earn about 150 verens for every month of service,” she added, “common knights don’t have that, you know.”

“150?” An appealing amount to any man who makes a living from hunting. His eyes glowed. Hearing such an overwhelming amount of money, he had to speak it again. 150, an amount enough to buy a sack of bread, five personal mercenaries for a year, and a hundred whores. He spoke with an air of epiphany, “I’m gonna be a rich man… so bloody rich, my chickens would wear robes and mg pigs would shit on featherbeds.”

“That’s a long climb, I tell you.”

“A man can dream.”

~~~

They made it before the gates of Tardel. A massive barrier of steel spanning as wide as the Guide and ten yards high. The gate, a disorderly weave of metal bars fixed into place by some group of, as revealed by their product, guesswork blacksmiths. A preposterously large gate which splits in half when the contraptions on its sides are operated by a five men each.

Arza let out a breath of relief as she was near her home, only a colossal gate blocking her way… and three guards who won’t let them in.

“Why?!” she asked, “we live here! I speak the truth!”

“Aye, every knave’s honest when you ask ‘em,” said one of them. “Now turn ‘round and pillage some other hovel.”

“You can pay us some coins and we’ll let you in… you look harmless enough,” said another, “and we won’t yap about you two sneakin’ in here in the dead of night.”

Axev held the bars of the gate and did his best to persuade the guards, “I pass by here with wolf pelts every other night… you know we live here.”

“Where’s the pelts, then?”

Axev was lost for words.

So if I don’t have pelts, my house flies somewhere else?

“You’re not much of a thinking man, are you?” Axev asked. Vexation made a puppet out of his mouth.

The guard phased his arms through the gate and hauled on Axev’s clothes, forcing him against the bars. “Look here, you twig, it’s night and three of us is tired,” he gestured his head to his peers, “either you give us sumthin’ shiny, or find a bog in the den to spend the night in with your wife.” He nodded to the woods.

Wife. That, I wouldn’t mind her being.

“Can I talk to my wife?” Axev smiled wryly as he went along. Any correction from someone of lower status was likely to foul the guard’s already sour mood. “I always let her decide.”

The guard let go, unable to care any less.

Axev turned to Arza who felt so weary that she could not be bothered by the word wife. “Oi wife, got any coins there?” while secretly moulding coins of his own inside his fist.

“If it means getting this over with, it’s yours,” she replied, “how much?”

“No need for that, I was just asking,” he grumbled, enough to be heard by Arza but not the guard. As he sharply turned back to the gate, he pulled out six coins from his empty pockets, a masterful imitation to the real thing.

“Coins for our safe passage,” he handed the fat-lipped keeper silver coins—perfect with all the expected imperfections.

Upon taking it, the gate keeper stepped back, “ah hell, I just remembered,” a vile smug crept to his lips, “see that house there?” He pointed to a manor. Gable roofed with a chimney and glass windows which meant it was a rich man’s. “That’s Sir Meils’ house… a forge knight. And he’s asleep now. Know what that means?”

“Honestly, I don’t give a damn unless he can open this gate,” said Axev in the calmest way he could, slowly losing his patience, “we paid. Now open this gate,” gritting his teeth, he pushed out one last word, “please.”

“That there’s the problem,” the keeper said with his fat-lipped smug, “we move the damn thing an inch, it shrieks like a hundred pigs. If it does, he wakes up. He wakes up, we’re dead,” the keeper turned his back on them, flipping a coin then catching it, “good luck with the bog though… or you can dig your way under. We won’t mind. You paid anyway.”

As the keeper walked away, Axev was presented with a number of choices. He could break a portion of the gate which would have him arrested. Or haul the gate keeper with chains which would also have him arrested. With enough focus, he can try morphing the coins he made earlier into spikes in the guard’s pocket which yields worse results. Or he could wait the morning with Arza.

After a minute of careful weighing of choices, he grabbed a rock and started digging—discarding any thought of dignity. Arza, after decapitating the guard a few times in her head for a while, made to dig as well.

“Just a while ago, you had floating swords!” she whispered her yell as rock scraped to soil.

“If I make a shovel, they’d deduce the coins were fake,” he answered, “which pretty much gets us both hanged for fraud since we’re together. This is better. Soon enough, we’ll get past this disproportionate shit of a gate… by which time, the coins will vanish from his pockets.”

“Vanish? Metal doesn’t just vanish.”

 “A forger’s piece isn’t eternal, you see.”

They dug at lengths until their arms were cursing the weight of the rocks and the stubborn soil. Halfway in their digging, Axev took Arza’s dagger to soften the soil before clawing it off. A part of him wanted it through the thieving guard’s nape.

The guard, with his other two companions, watched them with fondness—a quaint show for a dull evening watch duty.

Soon enough, they were able to creep under the three-yard tunnel they made.

“Oy,” called a guard as Axev and Arza were wiping their sweats and replacing it with dirt, “fill it back in. Don’t want no outsiders crawlin’ in now, don’t we?”

Axev did as he was told lest he gave the guards a reason to remember his face. It often pays to be a blank face, anonymous, especially to guards bored to death and are looking for someone to pick on.

~~~

“Why didn’t we try the other gates? The smaller ones,” queried Arza as they walked in the dark streets.

“Because the monkeys over there are just as ugly as those three we went by. And it’s bloody far and we’re tired.” He let out a monstrous yawn, “this is as far as I take you.”

They stopped at a separating road fogged by the drones of cicadas and adorned by waning lamplights.

“You have my eternal gratitude, sir.”

“I’m not… a knight,” the words squeezed past his teeth.

“I’m going right,” said Arza.

“Left,” he answered, gesturing his hand for a farewell as he turned.

Surrounded by peasant houses with shut windows, doused torches, and serfs who snored over tables and benches, they took their separate ways. As they were growing farther and farther apart, Axev felt the blackness of the night crawling on his spine. He heard a rustle from a corner not so far. Like a hammer falling out of place. Not a cat since it was quick and soft. Not the wind since it was careful.

He turned and made for Arza’s side.

“Oh my beloved wife, wait for me,” he sang as he jogged. When he got closer, his voice melted into a whisper. Not wanting to startle her with uncertain news, the words there’s someone in the shadows had to be refurbished.

“I doubt you’d survive a walk this late,” Axev was never good with sweetening news which tasted like dung.

“I’m armed. There’s nothing to worry about,” she said, “you go home and have your rest now. We’re not in the woods anymore.”

“Aye we’re not. There’s more knaves here.”

“I’m not afraid,” she stopped and looked Axev in the eye. There was certainty in the way she held her composure, “the creature had me by surprise. These boys would not.”

     The forger passed a hand over his face then took a deep galled breath, “if you want to be raped that much, then ask me instead,” he sounded as if giving a practical suggestion, “that way, you can be sure you’re still alive after.”

Arza took a slow breath then released it in a puff, “fine then.”

“Fine what?” he asked, confused, brows knitted, “rape you?”

“Walk, idiot.”

She went on with the forger as her escort again. After passing the length of the same tedious houses, they arrived at the front of a manor. A house standing a bit higher on a heap of land. The moon gleamed on its stone walls and widows of glass. Atop its three floors were little battlements ready for a vicous turn of events.

“You’re the daughter Lord Faith?” Axev asked, his jaws loose from its hinges and eyes steady at the manor.

“Actually, there’s two. I’m the younger. Is it so shocking?” Seeing her companion gaping like a fool was enough an answer.

“A bit,” he said, not taking off his eyes from the house, “I expected something like this from how you spoke.”

“About you being a knight… I can ask my father to have it arranged. You did save me.”

“No need for that. I think I’ve seen enough red during my childhood,” he said curtly, dismissing her offer, “now get inside and let’s get on with our lives. You must be cold.”

“You’re going alone? Take my knife at least.”

“I have two dozen,” he showed his hand with pellets of grey swimming around it.

“This is twice you’ve saved me.” Arza believed she would have been attacked had she been alone. “I will repay this debt.”

“Yes, yes, sure you will. Now get in so I can leave. Can’t have a filthy lad scattering shit all over your house now, can we?”

“You’re really going out in this dark?”

“Aye.” he said sharply. “What’s to take from me?” he held out his arms and smiled, “not a dab of wealth on my person.”

“You’re scared.” she said as her eyes scouted the nearby corners where something may skulk.

“No, I certainly am not.” The thumping inside his chest begged to differ.

“I can tell,” she said. Trust is a complicated thing and she would not let him in for safety. Two hours is too short a time to know a man.

After a quick exchange of farewells, Arza went in and Axev made to leave.

A clatter in the silent darkness leaves a mess for the imagination to arrange. Restlessness is a toothless rat that likes to nibble on one’s navel. No harm is done but it’s better to do something to make it stop. Feed it bread, dash it against a wall, tear it apart, slap it away, cut it to adorable little bloody pieces, anything.

Now, for her admirer, Axev told himself, a handful of iron grains at the ready underneath his cloak. Where’s that nibbling rat?

3. Curse upon Curse

Treading the empty streets, he scoured for a man whose only proof of existence was but a mundane sound. Under carts, behind corners, within bushes, nothing. But not long during his search, he heard, a sharp metal clang on stone from a few yards away. Axev rushed to it while keeping his steps to their lightest and senses to their keenest—especially his hearing. He circled around the tavern knowing the person would flee from the other side. He reached it in less time it would take for someone to get away.

There was no one.

Convincing himself it could be anything, from a stupid cat to a gust of wind, he turned to leave. Before he could turn, from behind, a gentle touch landed on his shoulder.

“It’s a bit late for someone to be takin’ a stroll.” There was no need to press a blade against Axev’s throat. Floating daggers were enough to tell him not to move.

Five short blades with deformed handles began circling around them like birds of prey. The weapons appeared melted and damaged, an obvious flaw of their forger.

“Quite a trick, eh?” the man said, one of his daggers tapped the wall six yards away—making the same sound Axev heard.

Knowing he’d be stabbed faster than he can forge, out of instinct, Axev raised his hands and yielded.

“I surrender, not that I have much of a choice with you being a forger and all,” he was planning for a quick escape all the while.

“It’s a rare sight, seeing you with a lass, Axev,” He started to sound familiar.

“My name’s a hard one to guess,” Axev said, stalling to have time to think, secretly looking for whatever he can use to flee, “if you want the girl, she’s all yours. She’s not dear to me in any way anyway.” It was then that the crude floating blades began to seem familiar—hideous imitations of knives that he admired so fondly from the past.

Then Axev turned his head slowly to see who it was. Looming behind him was a black-haired man who stood a hand taller than him. He wore a shirt filled with patches. Trousers torn then stitched. The man held a hearty grin that he seemed to have since the moment he approached.

Not finding it easy to believe the face he saw, he had to ask, “William?” followed by an exhale of relief. Then he whipped William’s chest with the back of his hand, cursing him as he did, “that was a stupid way to greet me.”

“I found it funny though.”

“That joke nearly cost you a limb,” Axev presented the sword under his cloak. Sharp and fresh.

“Take the damn things then. I don’t need ‘em,” he laughed heartily at Axev, holding out his arms as though he wanted them cut. Then he threw an arm across Axev’s shoulder. The circling blades around them dissolved into thick syrups of silver, dripping onto the ground until they were no more. “You’ve long surpassed me, Axev. That sword you have… didn’t even hear you make it. Yet still, you’re a bloody coward,” he raised his hands in mockery of Axev, “I surrender.”

“Because avoiding is an effective skill for survival.”

“Nay,” William replied, “hitting back is better.”

“I hit my enemies back a few times before. Done me no good.”

“You don’t hit hard enough, then,” said William. “When you hit ‘em in the face, make sure the whole head comes off.”

~~~

“You have time to talk, Axev? Somewhere quiet.”

“With me… a man… at a place quiet… I feel quite disturbed.”

“The brink… You remember the place, yes?”

“With a fair amount of dislike, aye.”

William led Axev across the city of Tardel to arrive at its border—a barrier of massive stone blocks assembled to hold fast against the most violent sieges. Dabs of grass lay quiet along the foot of the wall.

“Don’t go shittin’ your trousers now,” said William, making a blob of silver boil between his palms.

“Am I allowed to piss on it, at least?” Axev flicked his crossed fingers, grains of iron crumbled from his hands then slowly collected into a ball as he studied the height of the wall. “Did that thing grow a few yards? It’s higher than I remember.”

“Walls don’t grow. You’re just more scared than you was.”

William went first, assisted by four thin stakes. Two of which strapped themselves under his feet, the other two stayed taut in his grips, stabbing the crevices on the wall one after another as he went up.

“You’ve gotten slow at this, William,” said Axev, mounting the wall twice faster than his friend by clawing his way using gauntlets with hooks for nails. “You used to leap from knife to knife.”

“I must be getting too old for this,” said William with labouring breath, struggling halfway to the top of the wall.

“You’re twenty-four,” Axev replied, dust and grains sprinkled down wherever his feet pressed. “Perhaps you’re ill?”

“Ill? Why’d you think me—“ The stake on William’s right foot shattered, causing his leg to skid fifteen yards above ground, a dangerous height for a misstep. “Could be.”

Being the faster to reach the wall’s peak, Axev held out his hand to William and chains formed to fill the gap. William was not in the mood for help. “Just take the damn line, man,” Axev gave the chain a tug.

William gave no mind to the line dangling to his left. Instead, he held on to his pride. “I remember it was me givin’ you somethin’ to grab.” He made to finish his climb alone.

Finally at arm’s length, William took the helping hand.

“Damned wall did grow a few feet, I suppose.” Out of breath, he was hauled up by Axev. Heaving breaths and hands on knees, William stood at the edge of the wall to behold the cliff beyond it; at its distant bottom were endless pointed rocks and raging waters.

“Quite a long way down, ain’t it? A shame if some fool was to fall by accident,” William fearlessly stood at the wall—more at ease, hands together behind him, half of his right foot peeking beyond the edge.

Axev, being the weak-hearted man that he was, first lay flat on his chest before looking down the wall. “I concur.”

“Ever heard of the maiden’s curse, Axev? The bewitcher’s curse many call it.”

“Just rumours,” he answered, “I don’t like mulling over stories invented to make forgelings believe they’d fall under some curse if they toy with the power.”

“There is truth in every story,” William laid a hand on his friend’s shoulder—to which Axev winced noticeably. “You’re hurt?”

“A bit too severely, I believe. I was at the woods. I thought I finally found the wolf, that one-eared whelp. Tossed a blade at the bastard. Turns out, I came across a demon possessing a long-tail. I fought it… and lived.” Axev shook his head. “I didn’t believe in demons before.”

“Axev, that wolf has been a decade gone… it’s long dead by now.”

“Long-tail wolves can live to half a century. It’s alive.”

“Killing it won’t bring back our friends, Axev.”

“Sparing it would be spitting to their graves.”

Not a word passed between them for a few minutes. William sat along the wall’s edge, feet dangling far above the water. Axev took a step behind where it was flat and safe. The two enjoyed the nostalgic scene of an unseen horizon between a starry night sky and a boundless sea, hearing the crashing waves far below them while the wind whispered them songs. 

“When we were little pieces of shits, there used to be more of us sitting here,” said Axev, tapping his knees left and right.

“If killing that wolf would let us hear voices from under graves, I’d turn that whole forest to cinders. Make things quicker.”

“Now there’s a thought.” Axev’s lips curled an impish smile. “Arsony… why had it never crossed my mind?” He leered to William, waiting for how the man would react.

“Have you ever been in love, Axev?” he spoke, eyes set far into the distance.  Not the answer Axev was expecting. “That maddening crave for a woman that carves fools out of the wisest men.”

Axev answered with quizzical brows, “I’ve liked a few in the past,” nodding, “girls.”

“It’s a sad feeling, I tell you. Don’t you fall in love. Take my word for it.”

“You’re acting a bit strange.”

“Aye, that there’s the proper word. Strange,” William stretched his arms, “it’s this bewitcher’s curse. Limiting me to forging only those measly knives you saw earlier. It’s a bloody miracle I got this high up given my condition. All I forge easily break while my heart screams her name. For a long time, I’ve treaded a path of sanity… and I see that girl one step beyond its end.”

“The curse is real?”

“As real as the metal in our veins. Pain whenever you forge—a curse cast by the fairest woman you’ve beheld. When I start talking about her, I won’t run out of things to tell. That’s how fine a lass she is. Anita… oh damn, there, I said it. Ain’t Anita so pretty a name?” William eased on his back, feet still dangling down the wall. He held a smile painted with dreaming and joy, “do you think me deranged?”

“Just so you know, Will, you don’t look deranged… to me, at least… yet.”

“Your eyes betray you, my friend,” said William, staring blankly at the glowing moon. “I’ve already become so madly in love with her. Just weeks ago, there she was—troddin’ along Melic lane, all sedate and lady-like. Clean dress, clean face, clean all. I walked up to her, e’ery bit of courage with me… and I talked. Highborn as she were, Anita was kind enough to talk to people like us. I liked that about her. Adds colour to my day, talkin’ to her. Before we knew it, we were sittin’ on a fence… just talking. She looked so splendid that I can’t pull my eyes from her lips. I knew it was rude but I held my gaze. Then there came this gut feeling shouting to me, I should taste her lips. I took my gut’s word for it. She didn’t like it—hammering me on the head with her soft fists were enough to tell me that. I still remember that frightened look in her eyes. Five men were already pulling me back but they weren’t enough—not for this wilful bastard.”

The heart-broken forger’s chest rose as he drew a deep breath. “She had to cut my neck so I’d stop. It’s amazing really… living after a slash like this. Funny how my wound bleeds more after it’s healed.” His tears finally let themselves down. William lightly touched the scab on his neck, feeling their hardened lumps. “Stay away from Lady Anita, Axev. She’s a bewitcher. She bears the curse.”

William stood and took off his tunic to show Axev what has become of his back. There was his mark of being a forger—a black cross printed on the skin from the moment forgers were but blobs in their mothers’ wombs. Every mark was as unique as the person who wore them.

The cross on William’s back was with curls and spikes as if a painter spent weeks on it using a strand of hair for a brush. Underneath it, the bewitcher’s curse—a round silver mark with four segments crossing against the forger’s. Both marks, grey and black, a nemesis of the other by nature’s design.

“See the grey marks?” he trailed a finger along one of the segments of the curse. Crawling over his shoulders, sneaking around his hips, the pointed segments had found its way to his heart, “these were just short as fingers at first. Ever since I’ve been under the curse, there’s this surge o’ pain when I make iron,” said he, donning his tunic. “I feel poisoned. Like a hundred… no… a thousand thorns prickin’ my body for every bucket of silver made. Soon, when you start feeling your entrails in knots, you’ll come to realize it’s better not to forge at all.

“Losing what you treasure is a wound like no other.” William added, “and I’ve so many wounds now that a tortured man should be ashamed to show his.” A dry laugh made its way out of his lips.

“Many people live without the power we have, get on with their lives without it,” argued Axev but doing his best to sound comforting, “for every hundred men, only one is born like us.”

“We’re not among those ninety others now, aren’t we?”

At that, Axev felt a stinging urge to utter ninety-nine as a correction. But seeing William in such a dramatic state, he let it pass. “There’s no need to be so fru—”

“You don’t understand!” At William’s roar, Axev held his tongue. Upon seeing tears go down his friend’s cheeks, he knew quite well he was only meant to listen. “My sister died yesterday. It happened in the workshop. The locksmith I’m workin’ for… him and some merchant friend… they wanted to rape her. She wouldn’t go down with no fight. I had to do something… so I held out my hands, made to summon sickles for their necks. As the dust formed into pieces, the curse raged in me. I could have killed those two pigs in five seconds… easy as breaking twigs, I’m a forger!  Instead I writhed on the floor, Anita’s curse making me feel like I was being flayed alive.

“Betty was startin’ to make noise. So, the merchant struck her head with a hammer. The pig must have put all his strength in that one swing.” William paused, his hands rolled into fists. A deep breath before he added, “I swear by all things holy, I heard her skull crack.” He passed his hand over his eyes, the wind cooled the tears smudged on his cheeks.

Axev knew a lot of words but none seemed proper to say.

“This is too much to bear. You see, I could barely forge—not a key strong enough to turn locks, not a hammer hard enough to sink nails… not even one blade to save the only person I call family. And I fear there’d come a day when this curse consumes me entirely.” William spoke faster without knowing, hands on his head as he did, walking in circles, “this curse is devouring me… making me mad. Just hours ago, I served justice to my employer… put four daggers in the swine’s chest. I tried my justice on the merchant too but he got away. The bastard must have tattled on me to the guards. They caught me… bound my hands and made to take me to the dungeons.

“One day, you might fall under a damned bewitcher as well.” William raised a trembling finger. “Don’t die the way I did.” He held Axev in both shoulders. “I want you to take your last breath as a wrinkled up geezer who spends days on a good seat.”

“Your death?” Axev had to ask, brows knitted believing it was said in mistake. “I’m talking to a bloody ghost?”

“Not quite, but soon enough,” he peeked at the pointed rocks below. “You’ve been a good friend to me, Axev. It’s been a nice chat, but I really have to go.”

“Wait!”

William stepped down the wall.

~~~

“You’re not dying tonight, you craven git!” Axev had responded quickly to William’s tragic surrender. Swiftly forging a short line of chains and a hook, attaching it on one of the battlements, he managed to grab hold of William’s tunic.

“Ah, one last thing before I leave, my friend,” said William as he joined his hands, “don’t bother picking up the pieces.”

“What pieces?”

William slowly parted his palms. Between them, out came his five spinning blades from the ends of his fingers. Under their forger’s command, the thin long blades sheared William’s body into pieces much too many to count. His clothes were torn like leaves; blood sprayed madly about; and flesh splattered against the wall, chunks of it fell into the sea.  Nothing could have prepared Axev for such a grim sight—a friend dismantling himself before his very eyes.

Only a piece of William’s linen tunic was left in Axev’s grip.

~~~

Axev remained atop the wall, lamenting, unsure of what to do. His face and clothes were sprinkled with reeking red. He could smell William’s death all over him but was too shocked to even move or weep. He did nothing, spoke nothing—he only sat in solitude. After two hours of thoughtless staring at a little sheet of fabric, a guard spotted him atop the wall.

“You there! How’d you get up here?” the guard bellowed as the man hauled the sword strapped to his waist.

Quickly, with a flick of Axev’s finger, five swords came into being—then dropped dead by his feet. With a whisk of his hand, each sword sprang to life like a startled dog and stuck itself on the horizontal crevices of the wall—instant stairs. Advancing to lower slits as their forger made his way down, the first thirty steps had served their purpose well. But as Axev laid foot upon the next, it shattered completely—dealing him with an agonizing fall three yards high. Perhaps a tad higher if not for the roof he ruined as he went down.

Out of sorts from the dismantling he’d just seen—he believed it normal that a sword or two should break.

Hearing a bellow of ‘whot da fock wossat?!’ from inside the house, this time from some bigger man with the throat of a boar, Axev scampered his way down. He set himself down on the roof’s edge until only his fingertips kept him from falling. He let go—crashing onto the barrels below. Rushing to his feet, he flew to the nearest place he could hide in—which was a narrow passage between a house and the high wall one step wide.

Braving to pass the dark narrow passage, his boots landed on mushy earth that smelled more like shit than mud. Successfully avoiding a fated meeting with the monstrous grunt he’d awoken, Axev spent his next hour searching for a well to wash off the stains of the evening.

Impressum

Texte: Jude Alquinto
Bildmaterialien: Jude Alquinto
Lektorat: Jude Alquinto
Tag der Veröffentlichung: 02.02.2012

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